Live to Die
by solista
Summary: Before the Homecoming. Will the men of Lance Live to Die before they come to know each other.


"**Dream as if you'll live Forever.**

**Live as if you'll die Today."**

James Dean

He reclined back in the chair, legs under the table, stretched as far as they would go. It felt good to extend his legs, the muscles cramped from the long ride.

The horse had a rocking chair gait, but there was only so long a body could sit a saddle before the legs, back and butt yelled out for relief.

He had a job to get to, and time was short. This was good pay and one did not turn down good money.

His dark hair and honey-tanned skin made the blue of his eyes striking in contrast. Anyone not looking close would think he was just a cowboy who labored long in the hot sun.

The cocky walk, the slouched nonchalant way he sat the chair and the low-slung holster strapped tight to his right thigh would tell he was not just a cowboy.

What made most people look twice was, upon seeing the obvious youthfulness on the boy, was the coldness of those blue eyes and the obvious mark that he was of mixed heritage. A mestizo, one parent Mexican the other white not really accepted within the culture of either race.

However, the gun made one pause before telling the boy "your kind was not wanted here, move on." Grown men walked well around the boy giving him distance and space, fear was the factor not respect.

Johnny Madrid smiled to himself as the talk around him quieted; a hushed word a furtive glance told the young gunfighter he had their attention.

Despite his youthfulness Johnny Madrid had lived a lifetime. Started using his gun at the age when most boys were just learning that girls were something more than just for dipping their hair in an inkwell at school.

He wondered sometime what that would have been like, oh he had had some schoolin' but it was sparse. He did discover that his mind was like a sponge; it sucked up everything then held onto it until he had a use for it.

He never forgot a thing; every little thing could be useful he never wasted anything.

Growing up on the border towns of Mexico and the United States, he grew up fast, being of mixed heritage he grew up smart. The day he picked up a gun he grew invincible and after a few bullet holes in soft flesh, he learned there was only today, for a gunfighter that's all he could count on…. today.

He smiled as the man he was waiting for appeared; something about the swagger of his walk, the spilled stains down his shirtfront and the smirk on his mustached lips Johnny found interesting, "Val, Dios thought you'd gotten old an' forgot about me."

The scruffy man pulled out a chair and sat his butt down amid a swirl of dust, glaring at the boy, "Yeah an' if ya'da been here yesterday…"

Johnny sat up and suppressed a grimace, " I kinda had a delay, nothing ta cramp my style, the man still hirin'?"

Val turned a critical eye to the young man, "take another bullet didya'?"

Johnny shrugged and leaned forward pouring a shot of tequila for his amigo, "Yeah, Cam Johnson, figured he'd take up where his brother failed. This," shrugging his left arm, "was from a rifle set ta take me out if I was faster. Well I was, just not fast enough ta get outta tha way of tha coward who sat behind a barn door."

Val looked over the glass rim and studied his friend closer, "Ya look a little peaked, ya sure you up for this fandango?"

"Yeah, Yeah I'm just fine. Nuthin' wrong with my gun hand," Johnny lifted his glass and sipped the tequila.

"In fact I was eyein' that fancy lady with tha red hair."

Turning in his chair Val shook his head, "You what seventeen, eighteen now?"

Johnny shrugged again, "whatever don't make no never mind. She's lookin' out for business and I got tha package."

Val smiled, "Yeah guess ya do. Tell ya what, I'll take care of yer bottle an' you go on an' take care o' business."

The red haired fancy woman approached the table, "Hey boys, like a little company?"

Johnny pushed out a chair with his foot, "We'd like that ma'am. I was just tellin' mi amigo that he needed some female company. Course you'd have ta give 'im a bath 'fore ya can find him under all that dust."

Val nearly choked on the hard liquor as he banged the glass on the tabletop, "I don't need no help gettin'…. well you know. I thought she was..."

Johnny smiled, "I told ya I had a package for her, you." The crooked little smile lit up Johnny's face as his friend turned a shade of red he hadn't seen in a while, "now you two go on."

As the red head pulled Val to his feet, Johnny poured himself another drink, "Oh and Val, Happy Birthday mi amigo."

Looking down at his feet and noticing the dirt encrusted on his boots Val nodded, "gracias mi amigo."

Lifting his glass in a salute the grin taking up most of his face Johnny softly said, "De nada."

**Reflections**

He was a man that had it all, land, cattle, horses, the respect of his neighbors. People tended to seek him out for advice and sometimes a helping hand and he had given advice and monetary help to them in need.

He was Murdoch Lancer the Patron of the largest spread in the San Joaquin Valley; however, no amount of land and animals or respect he had, he was a very lonely man.

Hiding the unseen pain and hurt of losing a family twice to fate or God, he had nothing to show for his life.

The dreams of a young man from Scotland to come to America and become someone were high and lofty.

Hard work, sacrifice and a long journey across a big ocean had the 'dreamer' become a doer; nothing would stop him except perhaps a beautiful woman.

He would have stayed in Boston for his Catherine. However, she held his dreams close to her heart. True she was born into a society of wealth and privilege, but she told the man she meant to marry that there was something more, something to build to be proud of, and something that belonged only to them.

Catherine Garrett was a sensible, intelligent woman who hid a heart felt need for adventure. This was her time her decision Murdoch Lancer nor Harlan Garrett would stop her.

They were married, the immigrant from Inverness and the daughter of Harlan Garrett, and together they began their shared dream of a legacy of Lancer.

Murdoch placed the miniature portrait of his first wife, his soul mate, Catherine carefully upon the desktop.

They had started their legacy, he looked around the great room from behind the large oaken desk where he sat, and his eye remembered when the dreamers stepped foot into the ruin of a once great hacienda.

"Oh Murdoch look it's beautiful," the man turned a wary eye towards his ecstatic wife.

Perhaps the trip was too much for the dainty little thing, "Darling, may hap I'll fix a pallet for you to have a rest upon."

She stood hands on hips and glared at the tall man who was her husband, "Are you daft man, look at this woodwork and the bookcases against both walls," walking to the grand fireplace, "this is big enough to warm the entire room. Oh Murdoch my love, look under the covering of age and disrepair and see with my eyes."

As a dutiful husband, he looked and he saw, and his heart firmly planted beside hers, began to see Lancer.

His smile matched hers, as he picked her up and swung her around, "welcome home Mrs. Lancer."

Murdoch Lancer was again smiling, and then a frown took its place, a remembrance of pain and great loss. His Catherine was gone, long dead and the legacy they had both dreamed of gone, along with the son he had never seen.

He could second-guess himself from now until the end of time; he had sent his wife away before their child was born to save her from any harm as the land pirates fought for his land.

Her father would meet her and escort her to safety, the older man was late so Catherine and a few good ranch hands headed out to meet up somewhere of comparative safety until the Lancer heir was born.

Fate or God did not look down on them that day, Scott, his first-born came into the world kicking and screaming as his mother lay dying.

It was all in the past, Catherine buried, Scott kidnapped by a grieving grandfather and Murdoch returning home with empty arms and a broken heart and soul.

A noise at the doorway to the great room had him look up and smile, Teresa O'Brien his foreman, and friend's young daughter stood balancing a too heavy tray, "I brought you coffee Mr. Lancer and cookies. You looked sad and cookies always make me feel better."

With a heart-felt smile he nodded, "Thank you darling that sounds just like what I need."

She had been around the Patron her whole life he was like a second father to her, she at once noticed the small frames, which held the likenesses of the two Mrs. Lancer's, "they were beautiful."

"That they were," Murdoch guided the tray to the edge of the desk and picked up a cookie.

"You were thinking of your sons," she said pouring the coffee into the cup.

Swallowing the cookie he took the offered cup of coffee, "I often wonder what they are doing now. I know a little about Scott, but nothing about Johnny," he sipped the hot liquid. The memories of a blue-eyed blond-haired five-year-old Scott, then of a precocious blue-eyed dark-haired toddler, Johnny filled his head with 'what-if's.

"Daddy said the Pinkertons had a good lead down in Mexico. I'm sure it will be just a matter of time, you'll see." Teresa smiled at her second father then turned to leave the room, calling back over her shoulder, "Not too many cookies, Maria and I have something special for supper tonight."

"Alright darling, and thank you and thank Maria as well," he watched the young woman as she left. Teresa was a good girl and adept at reading his moods. Scott and Johnny, one day they would all be together, here at Lancer, he could feel it in his soul.

Would they accept him as a father, perhaps he could offer them a business proposition. The ranch was making money any one would be a fool to throw that away.

For the years between them, they would all be strangers, grown men already set in their ways. Then the questions of why, Scott left in Boston raised in wealth and luxury and Johnny his fate unknown, was the boy even alive.

Murdoch once again picked up the frames holding the likenesses of the two women he had loved beyond everything else, and he spoke to them in his mind, 'I will try to bring them home, and pray it is not too late. Lancer, built for them, their legacy. If they turn it down, I will end up a broken man in my soul. If you are angels in heaven guide their paths, please bring them home.'

**Life, Above All Else**

He was cold; his life in Boston had never prepared him for this. Someone somewhere had told him war was hell that was an understatement. War was much worse than any hell he could have conjured up in his intelligent mind.

Being logical in his approach to life, he was content that this was only one of a number of outcomes when he joined the cause, one that he was very grateful to fate or God was that he was still alive and in one piece.

Scott Garrett Lancer pulled back his shoulders and stood tall as the Confederate commander of the prison walked by. He may have lost weight, lost the shine from his boots but he would never lose his dignity or self-worth.

This war would end, as all wars will then the pain of healing would start.

Healing from the horror of war, compared to healing from the knowledge of a father's abandonment at birth will be much easier to accomplish.

Murdoch Lancer, why among this hell of prison would that mans' name lodge in his thoughts? It was not as if the man had even acknowledged his son growing up and becoming a man.

Sitting now, as alone as one could get in an overcrowded room, Scott Lancer leaned back against the wall of the prison. He would live.

Death was not an option, he had too much to live for, and top of the list was to confront the man who sired him and turned his back on his own flesh and blood.

He would live, it was not yet his time to die, and he would have answers to questions he long buried as he grew into a man.

Hearing the clank of the trolley rolling the meager meal to the prisoners Scott shifted and stood, picking up his wooden bowl he moved to the middle of the room.

Food, the cooks at Grandfather's mansion would not even throw this out to the cur dogs. However, it would sustain him until he escaped or the war ended.

The gruel was plopped into his bowl, if he did not look too close or take a good sniff he could and would get it down his throat.

Finding his way back to his 'alone' space he sank once more to the hard wood floor. Wiping his hand on his equally dirty pant leg, he made a 'spoon' of two fingers and lapped the porridge like meal off with his lips.

It was not as cook would make on Sunday dinner, but it was hot and the corn meal would fill a void in his stomach.

Maybe his first order of business upon his release would get a two-inch steak dinner with all the trimmings and eat until he was stuffed.

Murdoch Lancer would wait. Licking the bowl clean Scott secured it in the little bag tied around his waist.

Looking around him, the other prisoners though not fully content, found their own piece of floor and sat or lay down.

There was not much talking after noon meal, later when the sun warmed the exterior walls card games and quiet talk would make the place hum.

Scott had his whole life laid out before him, his social standing, and wealth opened any door he wished to pursue. This war and his part in it had changed the naive young man.

Life was short and there was too much out there to stir the interest of an adventurer. He would not live to die.

**Flights of Fancy**

Johnny Madrid raised his glass to his friend as Val descended the stairs. A smile on his face as the tall red haired woman sashayed down in front of him, a smile on her face just as big.

"Looks ta me ya could use a tall cool one," Johnny pushed the chair out with the toe of his boot as his amigo sat heavily onto the seat.

With a scowl darkening his face the older man looked over at the younger man, "guess I outta thank ya for my 'birthday present', so thank you."

The barkeeper sat a full mug of beer on the table in front of Val, and then eyed the young pistolero, "man at the bar said he's lookin' for Johnny Madrid. You've kept it quiet, don't want any trouble."

Johnny glanced at the bar, the man he saw standing there did not impress him any, man had to be an idiot. Three piece city suit, gun high on his hip, and some kind of funny bowl looking hat perched on his head, "no problem mister barkeep, don't look ta be he could fight his way outta croaker sack. You didn't say anything to him?"

The barkeeper stepped back from the icy blue glare fixed on him, "no Mr. Madrid, just said I'd heard of ya, that's all."

Johnny sat back in his chair and tipped it to stand on the back two legs as he picked up his glass of tequila, "good, keep it that way."

The barkeeper started his shift back to the safety of his bar, "You got it, anything else for you or your friend?"

Val smirked at the youthful play of emotions on the young gunfighters face, "nope, just keep this little conversation between us, shall we?"

"Yes, sir, Mister Madrid I'll go on back and tell the fellow I ain't seen ya."

With a grin that made the pistolero look much younger Johnny took a sip of his drink, "you do that Mister Barkeep, an' send over another bottle."

As the perspiring man wiped his hands on his soiled apron, "yes sir."

"Oh and have that little senorita bring it," Johnny glanced once over at the petite dark haired Mexican beauty leaning against the bar, her dark eyes looking out from under long thick lashes to lock onto the blue of his own.

With a nod, the barkeeper turned around to fulfill Johnny Madrid's wish and thank the good Lord above he had escaped with his life.

Val kicked at his friend's chair, "you enjoy that?"

Johnny brought his chair down to rest on all four legs and grinned at the older man, "hey, it's what's expected of the famous Johnny Madrid."

Val gave a snort and downed the last of his beer, with a tilt of his head, "what about that there green horn lookin' for ya?"

Johnny flicked a hand towards the bar and the man in question, "let 'im keep lookin'. Just come off that San Diego job an' right now all I'm lookin' for is a new bottle of tequila and some soft company."

Val felt the young woman brush past him and stand expectantly beside Johnny, "senor, you wish for this bottle?"

Johnny smiled up at the Mexican beauty, "that an' a whole lot more, if you're a mind to."

With a tilt of her head, she showed straight white teeth as she smiled back, "my mind is right now on how we perhaps can share this bottle upstairs in the quiet of my room."

Kicking at Val's chair as the older man snorted again, "quiet huh?"

"Oh si señor, muy silencio. And clean sheets just this morning," She held the bottle in one hand as she reached for the young man with the other, "come."

Pushing his chair back Johnny stood and grasp the small hand, "well guess today is just as good as any other day ta celebrate a birthday."

Val grinned, "You do that amigo. I'll hold down tha fort."

Johnny grinned back, "See ya."

Val watched his friend navigate the stairs the girl hanging on already pulling at the buttons of Johnny's shirt. The boy had a way with the women.

His lips turning down into a frown he knew Johnny was around eighteen or nineteen but just when was his friend's birthday, it had never come up before between them.

Val wasn't sure sure Johnny even knew. Thinking back on a conversation they had while on the trail, it was under a sky full of stars, the campfire crackling and the night sounds enveloped them. Johnny had been quiet all day, they had just finished a job, and the boy was always quiet after the killing was over with.

Over a cup of frying pan coffee Johnny let out a sigh, Val could almost see the acquiescence in the youthful lines of his amigos face, "what?"

Johnny did not look up but continued to stare into his tin cup, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, "Nuthin'."

Val kicked at the booted foot lying close to his own, "come on boy, better out than in. Least wise that's what I always found ta be true."

Without shifting so much as an inch, "Val, ya ever think about how your life coulda been if things were different?"

Knowing his young friend needed a wise shoulder to lean on, "all tha time mi amigo. But what ifs don't tend ta get tha job done or change how things are."

"Yeah, I know, learned that a long time ago, it's just I guess on how it was with my mother, it was ok growin' up how I did, just…"

Johnny looked up at his friend, the lopsided, creased beyond repair hat, the dirt-encrusted shirt hid a good friend, and something the young pistolero had few of, "I never told ya I gotta Old Man in California."

Val scrutinized his friend, Johnny Madrid never shared his time growing up before he became Madrid, "no ya ain't. He still alive?"

With a slight nod, "yeah, Momma said after he got her with me, an' I come out lookin' too Mexican he threw us out."

With a derisive snort he continued, "Guess he didn't think too good about what mixin' blood lines like that would produce. Well one day he's gonna find out."

Val was silent for just a heartbeat, he had to say the right words or one day he would hear of a killin' in California and the hangin' of Johnny Madrid, "Revenge, vengeance it messes with your mind. There's always two sides to a coin," with a snort the man continued, " 'cept for that double headed coin ya got stashed in yer pocket. Anyways as I was sayin' give the man a chance ta explain."

At his young friends glare Val glared back, "that Madrid icy stare don't put tha fear of God in me boy, all's I'ma sayin' is let that man talk 'fore ya put a piece of lead 'tween his eyes."

Johnny sighed and slumped back against his upturned saddle he used as a backrest, "yeah, suppose ya might be right. I can't rightly think of Murdoch Lancer without seein' me drawin' down on 'im and see that gringo's blood soak into tha dirt. Wouldn't be lookin' so high an' mighty layin' in tha dirt."

The startling blue eyes in the deeply tanned face reflected the smile on his handsome young face, "'cides I'd like ta see 'im grovel in that dirt 'fore I tell 'im who I really am. Whooee, can ya see tha gringo's face when it turns out he gotta pistolero for a son. Betcha that won't sit too well with all his gringo friends."

Val nodded and smiled back, "well you just 'member killin' don't always make it right. All it does is take a piece of your soul an' paint it a little blacker."

With a squint of his eyes and a baring of teeth Val peered at his friend, " 'an you are better than that boy, you remember that when ya say how-di-du to yer Old man."

Johnny grinned, his boyish humor returning, his black mood disappearing into the night, "damn Val when did you get so smart. You ain't been ta one o' them fancy schools back East have ya."

Val grinned back, glad the darkness had left his young friend, "no I ain't been back East, for nuthin'. What I been schooled in is from tha school of hard knocks, ya get knocked down one too many times an' then ya take your fate into your hands an' get back up, dust yer backside off an' make your way tha best ya can…. An' stayin' on this side of tha law… comprende amigo?"

Johnny nodded, "yeah I gotcha Val." With another grin the young man leaned forward, "I still got some livin' ta do. An' Murdoch Lancer ain't gonna stop that. Hell I'm seventeen got a few more years 'til some bullets gonna put me in tha ground."

Johnny looked hard at his old friend, "'an somethin' I learned from your school of hard knocks is 'live for today 'cause tomorrow may be your last'."

Throwing the dregs of his coffee out into the darkness, "damn Val you make tha worst coffee I ever tasted."

Val's face set as if the young man's statement bothered him, "well you make it next time. I ain't yer daddy or momma."

Johnny chuckled, "Dios guess I am lucky then. "Cause you'd make a momma only a sick calf could love, an' a Texas dirt devil couldn't be more ornery as a daddy."

Val sat back, "well, there ya go then. Be glad I ain't neither."

Johnny looked at his friend, his face serious, "I am, I am, but you are my best friend, somethin' I ain't got too many of. Just want ya ta know you are the closest thing ta family I got, gracias."

"Da nada, mi amigo," Val scrunched down into his bedroll. His emotions too great to speak anymore, least his feelings be given away.

Johnny was like a brother to him, something he had never experienced with his own brother and family.

The pistolero and the saddle tramp, what a pair. However, it worked for them and Val was grateful he had a chance to guide the boy into a straighter path than the one he had been walking.

Now if he could get the notion of the devil-may-care attitude and the idea a young death was his fate out of the boy, then all would be good in Val Crawford's world.

Johnny curled up on his side, Val was his amigo, and he really did listen to the things the older man regaled him with.

It was time to move on; it would be like always, they would meet up at some job somewhere, ride for a spell then part company.

The time spent with the older man was a comfort to Johnny's young soul, but the need for distance and independence was too much for the young man to be tied down to one place or one person.

Nope his own philosophy was that you only lived to die and dreams were like wisps of clouds, one day his life would end, not much of a future in hell.

Before that would happen he would confront Murdoch Lancer and let his 'father' see what he had wrought.

**Hope Resignation and Desire**

**Boston**

Scott Lancer hoped he would find what he was looking for, that is when he discovered himself what it was he was looking for.

Closure to long dormant questions, answers long over-due, and the cessation of an underlying need for something he could not put words to.

The Pinkerton agent that found him and delivered the means for his tormented soul to find answers was in itself a Godsend.

It gave him an excuse to travel to California, confront the man who was his sire and to free himself from the chains of a life he had no desire to pursue.

He loved his grandfather and his position in society, but there had to be more. He felt it in his soul and he would find it, in California.

**Resignation**

His dark haired head bowed in resignation; the little light filtering through the small window high above his head gave him no joy.

Regrets, yeah he had a few but he was not ashamed about his past. He was a half-breed kid who survived.

Nineteen was a good number, just wished he could have seen twenty. Wishes were just clouds drifting overhead; there had been no time for wishes in his nineteen years of life.

When he was living at Lancer as a child, he had no memory, his life started when he was ten and his mother died.

Murdoch Lancer, why think of the man now as his last sunrise broke the darkness of the night, if the man hadn't been a cabron maybe Johnny Madrid would never have been born.

Shifting in the hard floor of his cell Johnny Madrid had memories of an old man who told him once,

'He, who fears death, enjoys not life.'

One thing about Johnny Madrid's life is he did enjoy it, he gained respect, or fear from whom ever saw the speed and accuracy of his gun. He was good at his trade and he did as he pleased. He was top dog and took orders from no one.

Dipping his head, he wiped a hand across his face and chuckled at the feel of a few coarse bristles of chin hair, 'Dios not even old enough ta grow a proper beard,' he said to no one but himself.

At the sound of the key in the cell lock he looked up, well guess today was as good a time to die as any other day.

He stood and dusted off the prison garb he wore, damn he had thought he would die alone in the street of some flyspeck of a town in a fair gunfight.

Not being an educated man Johnny Madrid could read and write, and as he shuffled between the ruale guards he remembered a saying from some gringo.

Samuel Clemmits, Clemmons, whoever said, 'The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.'

He had lived a full nineteen years, no regrets except one, facing down the gringo who sired him and then threw him out, Dios his last thoughts once more on Murdoch Lancer.

**Desire**

Murdoch Lancer lay in his bed fighting as the specter of death circled the Estancia.

Paul O'Brien, Segundo, Father, and Friend, dead from an assassin's bullet.

Teresa O'Brien, orphaned daughter and now ward steadfast beside her guardian. Her father's death eased only by the realization she was not alone. She had Murdoch Lancer.

Sam Jenkins, doctor and friend stood tall and smiled down at his friend, patting Teresa's shoulder, "everything is looking good. I knew this old Scot was too stubborn to die."

"Thank you Doctor Jenkins," Teresa wiped a stray tear from her cheek, "what have you heard from the Pinkerton's?"

Sam motioned for her to join him in the hall. With the door pulled partially closed, the tall wrinkled-faced doctor smiled down at the brave young woman, "Scott has been contacted that was confirmed by the last telegram. Johnny," Sam shrugged his shoulders, "they have a lead down in Mexico. We know how big a place that is and the people are not very cooperative to a North American so we will just have to hold onto hope he is still alive."

Teresa looked up with her doe brown eyes, studied the face of the older man, and gave a small smile, "Daddy always said sometimes all we have is hope and desire. I believe with my heart Scott and Johnny will come home. They will fight beside their father and save Lancer, and they will stay and be a family."

Sam Jenkins pulled the girl close to his chest, her tears falling in earnest now as her petite body shook from the sobs, "You cry it all out honey, I'll be right here. Then you and I will have a fight on our hands to get Murdoch well."

Pulling back, but not enough to break the comfort of the doctors arms, "and I have two bedrooms to prepare. We will give the Lancer sons a reason to stay."

As Teresa once more allowed Sam to embrace her she smiled as the old family friend sighed, "**We** of course will do all **we** can to make that come true, first the Patron, then the spawns."

The Beginning.

3/2015

solista


End file.
